


Better Off

by Hurricos



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), Dutch is a stupid dumb bih in this, F/M, Heavy Angst, I wrote this on my phone so sorry for any typos!, Pregnancy, Spoilers, TW for swearing I guess, Terminal Illnesses, Unplanned Pregnancy, argument, calling pest control to take Micah out, micah is sweaty and annoying, touchy Dutchy or whatever, we hate rats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:20:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28098318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hurricos/pseuds/Hurricos
Summary: { i’m better off, without himbetter off, being a wild one }Dutch has not been for a long while, and as the gang sets up their home once again in Beaver Hollow, you finally realise the Dutch you were in love with and fell pregnant to is not coming back. It’s time someone stood up to him.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Reader, Dutch van der Linde/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 45





	Better Off

**Author's Note:**

> More Dutch more Dutch more Dutch  
> Idk I’m at the dreaded chapter 6, and after *spoiler alert* crying over Arthur’s tb for 40 mins (I stg this is my 3rd playthrough and I always cry) I decided to write this little thing because I’m a sucker for angsty shiz.

Things amongst the gang had felt wrong for such a long time - wrong in the sense of upheaval, constant change and the lurking fear of danger around every corner.

But recently? They felt even worse than ever before. Losing so many friends - Hosea, Sean, Lenny, and being stalked to every end of the country by Pinkertons. Not to mention the particular pain losing Dutch for a number of weeks in Guarma was to you. Everyone missed the boys when they’d disappeared (mostly all of them...) but you had hurt the most. You loved Dutch, you were carrying his child and the thought of raising that baby without it’s father drove you to distraction every single waking moment.

So when they’d heroically returned, you felt your sense of despondence would fade... but it didn’t.

Your Dutch... wasn’t the same, and hadn’t been for quite some time. Maybe you’d been naive, hoping to ignore the small changes in his manners - yet now you realised the Dutch who’d won your heart had most likely died in the sweltering close humidity of the swamps surrounding Shady Belle. 

He was acting like a fool, making rash decisions on a whim and steering the gang more into actions of revenge - rather than the preservation of everyone’s safety. As the time had mulled on, and your strange little family of outlaws snuck north for safety from Pinkerton Detectives - you became more and more aware of Dutch’s ignorance and downright selfish behaviour. You’d decided enough was enough, and on this clear and crisp foggy morning, your crossed camp with an importance in your step.

Hugging your beige and white plaid shawl tighter around your shoulders, your pregnant figure strode towards the northern corner of this miserable miry camp where Dutch’s tent was pitched - and as usual, Micah was slobbing out on the wood table situated just in front of the mouth of the caves.

Paying the blonde haired rat of a man no heed, you stopped right in front of Dutch’s feet, where he was sat outside the opening of the tent, reading as usual. It seemed it was the only thing he could do at the moment, besides being an ignorant bastard.

“Dutch, can I have a word please?” You pressed, hand resting at the top of your swollen stomach. Your eyes shot across hastily to Micah, an intentionally unkind look in them. 

“In _private_.” You stressed, catching the immediate salacious sniggers of the portly bellied git; ascending quickly from his seat - kicking his legs down from their resting spot on the table, his silvers spurs ringing like his annoying laughter.

“Like that, I see.” Was all he chuckled, skulking off to go and irritate some other poor soul for a few minutes. But, at least he was gone.

Your steps were quick as they moved through the drawn tent flaps, your ears not going amiss to the audible tired and dramatic sigh of Dutch, followed promptly by the snapping of his book closing and then, heavy booted footsteps mirroring your own path inside the privacy of the tent.

“Y’know, if there’s somethin’ you gotta say to me. You can say it in front of Micah.” Dutch sounded wound up, and already like he was going to be a difficult, dismissive piece of work.

In the beginning, when Dutch had first found you, he had told you he loved you because you were like no other woman he’d had before. Fiery, spirited and certainly a far cry from a shrinking violet. He adored your passion for the gang, the way you got on with work with the others and offered wise words when he was troubled. He loved that you didn’t fall meek in times of hardship, that no matter what, you always said what you wanted to say.

Now you were beginning to think he was loathing this trait about you.

“Dutch Van Der Linde,” you snapped, taking on a stern tone, “I’m carrying your goddamn child, the least I deserve is a private conversation with you.” His jaw shifted irritably at your bold and argumentative voice.

“Since when did it become such a luxury anyway?” You grizzled, taking a seat on the edge of the cot - back aching already from a combination of doing some simple chores and the weight of the 7 month old child growing in your stomach.

Looking up at him, you’d noticed a few seconds of silence had passed - and still Dutch’s rather turbulent expression hadn’t softened in any way. He was peering down at you like you were wasting his precious time.

“What exactly did you come in here for anyway?” He retorted, folding his arms across his chest defensively, “to mock me? To chide me?” His voice cracked with a rising tension in his voice - something you were seeing so often as of late. It’s like he had little or no patience left at all, for anyone. Not even you...

“What the hell is wrong with you, Dutch?” You cut plainly and simply, never one to beat about the bush with words. Hosea always used to say, despite your age different with Dutch, that’s what made you and Dutch work so well together - you cut out his fancy language and often simplified things and had wisdom with words far beyond your years. How you missed Hosea so dearly, especially in recent times - watching the family you’d loved fall to pieces like melted iron.

The gang leader looked stunned by the abrupt question you’d placed in his court, and his brows knitted together in a furious frown.

“Excuse me!?” He was like a child that had been taken from the candy jar, already on the defence and looking to throw the mother of all tantrums just because someone had challenged him.

“You heard me.” You said, trying to keep as calm as possible for the sake of the baby. “What’s been going on? You’re not ...” 

_ The man I fell in love with _

Biting your tongue, you decided with a better wording to try and keep this situation as sensible as possible.

“You’re not yourself.” Was all you said, looking to him for, hopefully, a reasonable, calm and thoughtful answer.

How wishful that thinking was...

Dutch erupted, kicking his boot off the side of the chair by the tent flaps, the piece of furniture skidding noisily across the wooden foundation flooring of the tent.

“Why the hell does everyone keep suggesting I’m some goddamn  lunatic !?” His low tones cracked and fractured with the pure inflammation of his mood, his form rigid and tense, looking so unapproachable and aggressive.

You pondered for a few seconds on what might be a suitable follow up to such a childish display of anger - but it appeared your love was not finished yet.

“I’m tryna’ work hard to secure a life for us all, and all I seem to be gettin’ in return is whining and bitching!” He bellowed, staring at you as if you were an insolent young girl getting in his way. Perhaps that’s all you really were to him now. 

Shuffling uncomfortably on the cot, you rubbed your stomach slowly - maybe it was all Dutch’s shouting, but the unborn child shifted and wriggled no end in the last few minutes.

“No one is trying to bring you down, Dutch.” You reasoned, a pleading in your (eye colour) eyes. “You’ve just been on some kind of warpath lately. We need to focus on getting out of here, yet you wanna chase down Cornwall and get your own back on the Pinkertons!?” Without even realising it, your voice was beginning to grow louder too - the hot fire of irritation kindling stronger in your gut by the second. 

“Think of the women, Jack - me and your own son or daughter for Christ’s sake!” Your eyes were filling with tears, thinking about the last of the people here you cared for more than life itself. You didn’t want to see them die at the hands of his foolishness. 

“Have you even been paying attention to us at all recently? Seeing how everyone is?” You put to him, watching how he daren’t look you in the eye.

“Course I have.” Dutch mumbled like a scolded kid, looking at the corner of the tent to avoid locking gazes with you.

“Have you noticed how sick Arthur is? How blind drunk Karen is all the time!? And what about Pearson!? He’s near enough ready to hang himself-“

“That’s enough!” He cut in, taking a strong dislike to the facts folded on the table like cards in front of him. 

That look in his eyes - you’d seen it a few times before, in the face of a fight, perhaps a playful and more sultry rendition from the end of your bed a few times - but mostly when he was about to really erupt. This look had only ever been aimed at some O Driscoll’s or an uncooperative bank manager... and now it was aimed at you.

“Remember back in New Hanover all those months ago? Remember what you said to me!?” You pressed on, unrelenting and further burning away at him - something he so desperately wanted to recoil from, but you were not about to let him slip away.

Your mind was going back on the conversation in question - it was way at the beginning of your pregnancy, when the gang had just come down from Colter after fleeing Blackwater. Things seemed so opulent back then as you pitched up in Horseshoe Overlook, the springtime emerging and safety finally feeling achievable for the first time in months.

Dutch had promised you one morning, after a short conversation regarding the baby, that he would get everyone to safety by the end of the year. That you’d all live in a great big farm, and he would finally marry you like he had wanted to for so long. He sealed that promise in the form of a small silver and opal ring, one you’d worn every day since. It wasn’t technically an engagement ring, but in your eyes - it was as good as.

“Maybe this might jog your memory.” You spat, after wrenching the ring off your finger and slamming down on top of the crate in front of you, watching as Dutch eyed the jewellery, and a certain sadness loomed through his eyes like a ghost stalking the hallways of a long abandoned house.

“Do you remember what you promised? That you’d get us all safe. That we’d be married and everyone would be free from all this.” Your voice was breaking in tandem with your heart, the glassy swell of tears in your eyes were futile to attempt to hide. 

“I-I’m tryin’... (name),” he sounded fragile for the first time since you’d entered the tent. “I really am.” His dark eyes fixated on the ring situated on the crate, but he didn’t move from his spot in the corner. 

You’d expected this to be the point where he relented, and you finally broke through - you could reason with him and get him to stop listening to the serpent that was Micah, hissing in his ears all the time.

Dutch’s childlike fearful expression twisted into one of animosity again, and your heart sunk fast.

“But the last thing I need right now is to be guilt tripped by the likes of you.” He remarked sourly, taking the ring and your hand, roughly lifting your closed fingers to shove the piece of jewellery back into your palm. 

“I don’t have to be told what to do by some kid.” 

Now you didn’t take to that one kindly. Kid? You weren’t a kid when you were helping advise him on potential camp locations months ago. You weren’t a kid when you were there for him in his most doubtful and insecure moments. And you  _ certainly _ weren’t a kid when he was wanting after your body night after night.

You’d had it.

“Ok, Dutch,” any hope of negotiating normally fell out of reach, “I’m a kid am I? Well then  fuck you.”  The words felt like sweet nectar falling from your lips.

“You don’t want to listen to me? I don’t have to listen to you. I’m done.” You spat, throwing the ring to the floor where it bounced with a small thunk, landing god knows where. Fleeing from the cot, you were about to make your exit when his firm hand grasped around your wrist like a vice, the cold metal of his rings practically burning against your skin.

“You go- and you will have nothing.” He spat, “you’ll be nothing without me.”

Any other father to be would be begging, begging for the mother of their unborn child to stay around. Yet being able to be around his baby seemed the last of Dutch’s priorities right now... and that sealed the deal for you.

“Get your hands off me.” You snarled, lip curling as you yanked your wrist free defiantly. “I was a powerful woman before you, and I’ll sure as hell be a powerful woman after you.”

His eyes roamed over you, in an assessing fashion - as if for a split second, his brain overrode his ego and he was thinking about the fact you really were leaving him.

“Remember this moment when you’re alone, with no men, no great legacy like you want.” Your tone was brash and devaluing. “Just remember what you drove away.”

With that, you took off from the tent and out into camp. It was no secret everyone had heard the screaming match, but they all tried to make themselves look busy, to avoid being caught out.

“Good day, Miss.” Micah remarked under his breath with a sly voice, however he wasn’t quite as quiet or savvy as he’d like to be.

Turning on your heels, you whipped your cold glance around to the bastard in question - and watched the momentary alarm on his face when he realised you’d heard him.

“Go to hell.” Was all you could manage, but the phrase was said with enough venom to paralyse a dog. 

You had been expecting Dutch to maybe finally come to his sense, and at least try and stop you. But it never came to fruition, and you decided in that moment as you prepared your horse that you were better off leading your own life away from this reduced and chaotic version of Dutch. After all, he was not the man you’d been promised to. He’d changed, and with that - so had your plans.

“Miss (surname),” it was Arthur, and he looked upon death’s doorstep as he crossed camp, trying to subdue the terrible and heavy coughs on his chest. You felt immense pain, no one seemed to notice or acknowledge his illness... but then again, Arthur wasn’t one to play on it, he just got on with things.

“You’re really goin?” Arthur asked, as you nodded slowly, anxious about this move but deep down - as a mother to be, you knew it was the right thing.

“Yes, I don’t want no fuss.” You explained to the cowboy, who nodded in agreement and understanding.

“I understand.” He corroborated, helping you up onto the back of your trusted steed, light grey shire, Othello. 

You felt the shakiness and fragility in Arthur, where once there had been a man strong enough to fight off 10 brutes at once - there was a sick and poorly thing who was clearly struggling and trying so hard to hide it.

“I wish you well, Miss.” Arthur then said, reaching into his brown leather satchel and retrieving a wad of cash. It looked easily to be $1000.“I want y’ to take this. Get yourself somewhere safe, get that kid a nice home.” 

Your heart swelled and broke all in the same time, and you rather reluctantly took the cash that Arthur was so insistent on giving you.

“Not like I can take it with me.” He said with a wane smile, confirming his fate which hurt you even more. Arthur Morgan was a good man, you only wished things had turned out better for him...

Better for all of you.

“I’m so sorry Arthur.” You whispered, voice barely a croak, “I wanted things to be different.”

“I know, darlin’.” He soothed you, taking your hand as you reached down for him to grasp it. He patted your knuckles softly. “I did too.” 

Time was forever urging you on, and you felt it was your place to leave now or lest it be too late.

“I hope you can get away from this too, Arthur.” You said, although there was a silent thought between the both of you that, realistically, the only way Arthur was escaping this was through his illness. A harrowing and saddening thought indeed.

Arthur merely cracked a broken and forced smile, tipping his hat to you as you gently encouraged Othello onwards.

“You be well, Miss.” 

The last words, on your departing voyage from camp, and out into the mid morning sunshine... a bright and blinding white light which would carry you to god knows where.

However you left with the safe thought that anywhere would be better than being dragged under for any longer, by Dutch’s torrent of madness.

And so you rode on, never looking back. 


End file.
